I spent a winter night stranded at the Little Creek Greyhound station, waiting for a bus that never came. The station was nearly empty — just me, an old attendant named Harlan, and a door at the back that should have led to a storage room. Harlan told me not to open it. He told me what happened to the last person who did. But the cold was coming through the cracks, and I could hear something on the other side — a sound like wet wool dragging across concrete. By morning, the door was gone. The wall was solid. And Harlan was sitting in his booth, staring at nothing, his hands folded on the counter like he was waiting for something I couldn't see.

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